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Above the stir and tumult of the street:
"He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree!"
And through the chant, a second melody
Rose like the throbbing of a single string:
"I am an angel, and thou art the king!"
King Robert, who was standing near the throne,
Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone!
But all apparell'd as in days of old,
With ermin'd mantle, and with cloth of gold;
And when his courtiers came, they found him there,
Kneeling upon the floor, absorb'd in silent prayer.

H. IV. Longfellow


Then constant faith, and holy hope shall die,
One lost in certainty, and one in joy;
Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Charity,
Triumphant sister, greatest of the three,
Thy office and thy nature still the same,
Lasting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy flame,
Shalt still survive—

Shalt stand before the host of Heaven confess'd,
For ever blessing, and for ever blest.

Matthew Prior



As grew the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the bless'd above:
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And music shall untune the sky.

John Dryden


"And Jesus said unto them, There shall not be left

here one stone upon another. . . Heaven and earth

shall pass away."

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherits shall dissolve:
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

William Shakspeare


Who has this Book and reads it not

Doth God Himself despise; Who reads, but understandeth not,

His soul in darkness lies.

Who understands, but savours not,

He finds no rest in trouble; Who savours but obeyeth not,

He hath his judgment double.

Who reads this book—who understands—

Doth savour and obey— His soul shall stand at God's right hand,

In the great Judgment Day.

Old Hymn



Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of truth to walk upon,
My scrip of joy—immortal diet—
My bottle of salvation;
My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage,
While my soul, like a quiet palmer,
Travelleth toward the land of Heaven.

Sir Walter Raleigh


How happy is he born and taught.

That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill;

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,

Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,

Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend,

And entertains the harmless day,
With a religious book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands,

And having nothing, yet hath all.

Sir Henry Wotton


It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make men better be; Or standing long an "oak three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be.

Ben Jonson

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